Page 167 of Bad Prince

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Isa rolls slightly, clutching her ankle.

Her face twists, conveying real pain.

Trainers start running out. The crowd noise dips, shifts into that low, uneasy murmur.

Phones come out.

And then—everything changes.

Movement.

Fast.

Decisive.

He’s there.

I don’t even see where he comes from.

One second the sideline is controlled chaos?—

The next?—

Tristan is already on the field.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t look around.

Doesn’t wait for permission.

He hurdles the barrier like it’s not even there—clean, athletic, effortless—and lands on the turf already moving.

My breath catches.

Hard.

He reaches her before the trainers fully do.

Drops to one knee.

Says something I can’t hear—but I can see it in his face.

Focused.

Sharp.

Commanding.

Not the boy from the quad.

Not the easy laugh.

Not the careless smile.

This version of him?—

This is something else.

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